


the loudest become the strong

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23798344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: A series of short 'things you said' prompts for various Band of Brothers pairings, via Tumblr!
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, Donald Malarkey/Skip Muck, George Luz/Joseph Toye, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	1. things you said when you were drunk  --  speirs/lipton

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been going through my old BoB tumblr, renelemaires, and found... a treasure trove of fics that I wrote and never posted?? Which is a shame, because I was honestly a better writer then than I am now. (Don't ask how that happened. I have no clue.) Since we've all got a bit of time on our hands, this quarantine season... here goes nothing! Gonna try to post some of my older work.

Lipton maneuvers Speirs inside, careful not to let him trip over his own feet.

From the way the drunk man mutters under his breath as he stumbles along, Lipton isn’t sure he appreciates it.

“You’re almost there,” he encourages, guiding Speirs towards the couch with both hands on his shoulders. “A few steps more, sir.”

Speirs collapses down like a sack of bricks, but he doesn’t stay down. It’s only a few seconds before he’s peering up at Lipton, blinking hazy eyes up at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Someone moved the couch,” he says. He sounds severely disgruntled over this fact; that could have more to do with the copious amount of alcohol in his system than any real issue with the couch’s location. Lipton isn’t sure. It doesn’t seem like the right time to ask. “The couch, first sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. The couch.”

“It’s a very nice couch.”

“It is.” Lipton scans the room until he finds a blanket. Nodding to himself, he picks it up and throws it over Speirs’s shoulders. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be a much busier day, now that everything is over.”

Speirs blinks up at him, eyes unnervingly dark, and Lipton fights the urge to squirm. It’s rare that Speirs can get under his skin — he’s never subscribed to rumor, and would even call them friends at this point — but this whole situation is odd. Something seems inherently wrong with the idea of Ron Speirs needing to be taken care of. They’ve been in the reverse position before, of course, in Hagenau during Lipton’s bout with pneumonia. To be looking after Speirs, however…

It takes Lipton a few minute to recognize the gleam in Speirs’s eyes. He’s seen it before — in the church in Foy, lit against halo of candles. Admiration.

“You,” Speirs says, and swings a wild hand up to land on Lipton’s chest. Lipton doesn’t step back. “You are an incredible man, Carwood Lipton.”

Except he’s really drunk, and big words are hard, so he mangles the word _“incredible”_ and Lipton’s name leaves his mouth sounding like _“Caruh Liptosh”._ The sentiment still stands.

Lipton huffs in amusement and pulls the corner of the blanket over Speirs’s shoulder. “I appreciate that, Ron,” he replies. “Now get some rest.”


	2. things you said when we were on top of the world  --  muck/malarkey

“Look at it,” Skip hisses, hand locked tight around the top of Don’s arm. “Just look!”

Don _is_ looking; but his gaze is torn between the glowing skyline and the way the reflection of the city dances in Skip’s wide eyes.

Neither of them are afraid of heights. This is a sort of prerequisite for throwing yourself out of airplanes. If you’ve got a problem with heights, you’ve got a problem with the Airborne, and you should probably find a profession that keeps you closer to the ground. (Skip declares that “no one is actually afraid of being up high — they’re just afraid of falling once they’re up there.” Don really can’t argue with that.)

Still, the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower is something else.

“Wow,” Skip breathes. His voice radiates with all the warmth that was absent in Holland, absent in Britain, absent even now in the chilly air of an early December night. Don cannot feel cold, however. Not when Skip sounds like that, awestruck and filled with wonder, his hand still tight around Don’s arm.

They’re on leave together in Paris, the city they helped free. Here and now, it really feels like they’re at the top of the world. Don tears his eyes away from the glittering skyline to look at Skip’s face again, and is struck with the certainty that anything is possible.

Two kids from Nowhere, America, can meet each other, become best friends, and jump out of planes. They can land in France, make it to Paris, and stand high over the city side by side. They can tell each other anything.

Don takes a deep breath. “Skip, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Skip finally tears his eyes away from the city. When he glances at Don, he looks like he’s not sure if he should smile or not. “I,” he says, then pauses. “Yeah, buddy. Me too.”

“This wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t here to see it,” Don tells him. He brings one hand up to Skip’s back, and claps him on the shoulder. Skip smiles, doing the same, and they wrap their arms around each other.

For a beautiful moment, the entire universe consists of only the two of them, towering above everything else. There is no war, there is no homesickness, there is no fear of death and tomorrow. They are high above everything.

Here and now, they’re at the top of the world.


	3. things you said when you were drunk  --  luz/toye

George is balanced against his side, stumbling over cracks in the pavement and stifling hiccups into the arm of Joe’s winter coat. Joe is two seconds away from hauling him over his shoulder and carrying him to the car. Prosthetic leg and likelihood of George puking on him be damned. If they keep up at this pace, they’ll be walking home all night.

“‘M still waiting,” George slurs, after his boyfriend’s quick reflexes save him from winding up face-down on the sidewalk. Joe looks down on him, raising an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“An apology.”

This makes Joe laugh. Correction — this makes Joe _snort,_ and pull away his hands just long enough to watch George wobble. It’s mean, but it’s warranted. He’s not the one who has to apologize here.

“Are you kidding me, Luz? I ain’t the one who ran out after our fight and got wasted at some shithole bar you don’t even know the name of.”

“Name mighta _been_ Shithole,” replies George, undeterred. “I dunno.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

George scoffs, continuing down the sidewalk. Joe is allowed to think his boyfriend has been smart enough to drop the topic for a glorious few minutes before he speaks again.

“You said it first, though. Said you didn’t need me.”

Joe opens his mouth, then promptly closes it again. George continues.

“I didn’t say that. Was all you. ‘N then, just cause you get called to pick my ass up at midnight, you think I get — I getta — got —“

“Keep trying,” Joe encourages.

“Got to beg on my knees to you?” George finally manages, victorious. _“You?_ Get real. I don’t need that. Ya know, you don’t — you don’ need me, fine. I need you. You don’ need to need me, but sure isn’t that easy to get rid’a me. Nice try, Joe. Nice try.”

“You’re not making —“ Joe starts, and then stops. He can’t avoid this conversation. George is making perfect sense, and they both know it. After a few painful seconds, he sighs. “We need to have this conversation when you’re sober.”

“Yeah,” George tells him, nodding. He’s slumped back against Joe once more, and Joe is all but carrying him at this point. He doesn’t mind; the guilt gnawing at the back of his consciousness tells him it’s the least he can do. “Can you jus’… jus’…”

“What?” Joe asks, brow furrowing. Looking troubled, George pouts at the ground for a moment, and stifles another hiccup into his fist before deciding to speak.

“Jus’ say you didn’t mean it.”

His voice is so soft that it takes Joe a moment to realize what he’s said; then it hits him like a punch to the stomach. The look on George’s face tells him his boyfriend would be perfectly fine if he lied — expects it, really — as long as he hears the words come from Joe’s lips.

And dammit if that doesn’t make Joe feel the worst he has all night.

He wraps an arm around George’s shoulders, pulling him close and keeping him there. “I didn’t mean it,” he tells him, “and I ain’t lying. I’m sorry.”

George closes his eyes, and leans into Joe’s chest. He has nothing left to say.


	4. things you said after you kissed me  --  babe/roe

Babe is trembling when they pull away. His eyes are wide, lashes quivering against translucent lids. His pupils are dark, so dark that the almost absorb the bright color surrounding them, like a bottomless well of blackness. For a moment, all Gene can see are Babe’s eyes.

Then a hand comes up to cup his face. He leans into it without being conscious, and hears Babe exhale.

“Jesus, Gene,” he rasps. “You’re really somethin’, ya know that?”

There are a thousand words on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t get out a single one of them. Instead he just reaches up, seizes Babe’s gentle hand, and drags it to his lips.

He hears Babe gasp. It is a minute thing, barely more than a breath, but it sends shudders down Gene’s spine. For a moment he cannot bring himself to pull away. He keeps his hold on Babe’s wrist, trying to absorb everything at once. The heat of his skin, the pulse racing beneath Gene’s lips, the tiny scar on Babe’s palm. Everything about him is beautiful, surreal in a way that makes Gene feel like he’s drunk and dreaming at the same time.

 _I don’t deserve this,_ he thinks. _You can’t be real. I’m terrified that one day I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone, just like the brightest thing in my life never existed at all. I can’t live with that. I’d die before I could ever lose you._

He doesn’t say any of this, however. Gene simply allows Babe’s hand to fall away, and gently reaches out to seize the collar of his shirt.

He reels Babe in, and Babe lets him. The hint of a grin dances across his lips when Gene brings his own mouth against them. They are not kissing, but they are close enough for their lips to brush with every inhale.

 _“Tu es tout pour moi, mon cher,”_ he whispers, and finally seizes Babe’s kiss once more.


	5. things you said at 1am  --  luz/toye

Joe is woken by the feeling of arms twining around his chest.

This is not an uncommon thing at this point. Sleeping in the same bed as George Luz, he realized shortly after it started, is like sharing a bed with a clingy octopus with abandonment issues. George tends to be a deep sleeper, and he doesn’t even snore (though the sleep talking is its own issue altogether). The constant need to be close at night is the one thing that Joe’s still getting used to.

“Luz,” he tries, remaining still as he feels his boyfriend nestle up against his back. After a minute of silence, he tries again. “Hey, Luz!”

An incoherent murmur from George is the only answer he gets.

“Come on. It’s hot, huh? Lay off the giant squid act.”

“Mmm.” George’s arms tighten around his shoulders, and he slurs out something that sounds like “don’t wanna.”

Joe sighs through his teeth and frowns over at the bedside table. He can’t make out a lot in the dark, but there’s still that picture there — the goofy one George made them take at his birthday a few months ago. Joe is sitting shirtless, in a very small pair of shorts. (Skip, Malarkey, and Penkala convinced him to do a Magic Mike act for George’s birthday; never again.) George is slung over his lap, the grin on his face bright enough to blind. He’s got one hand around Joe’s neck, while the other hoists a beer bottle into the air. The joy on his face is so undiluted that something Joe gets chest pains from looking at it. The idea that someone could be like that around him, that he could have that affect on someone like George…

He still can’t believe it, most of the time.

He sighs, and finally goes slack in George’s grip. What’s the point of struggling? George always gets his way in the end. Besides, it’s not like Joe ever puts up much of a fight.

“Just don’t strangle me in my sleep,” he mutters. He thinks he feels George chuckle.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Joe.”


	6. things you said that made me feel like shit  --  winters/nixon

There are very few times that Dick can honestly say he’s angry at someone. Annoyance is natural, sure; he can scorn people, he can disdain them, he can internally criticize and stew over their most poignant errors. True anger, however, is foreign to him. He’s experienced it only a few times in his life, and he’s grateful for the fact.

There is nothing pleasant about acid curdling in your stomach; about flame rising up inside you, ready to spill from your lips in fiery words and sear whatever it touches. This is an anger that cannot be turned towards mercy or productivity. It is determined to destroy.

The fact that he’s directing such strong emotion at Lew is almost more frightening than the anger itself.

Lewis’s entire body is tense; he’s squaring off against Dick as if he expects him to take a sudden swing, as if he wants him to. What’s worse is that, for a second, Dick is sure he wants the same thing.

He will not swing his fists at Lewis, however. He could never give in to such a savage urge, or even give it an ounce of consideration. Instead, he straightens his shoulders and takes a step forward. Lewis’s eyes widen a bit more, locked on Dick’s burning gaze.

“What gives you the right to say something like that to me?” Dick demands in a low voice.

Lewis has never demonstrated much self-preservation instinct. He cracks a humorless smile, white teeth flashing like the gleam of a knife’s blade. “You heard me, Dick. Do you think I’m going to take it back just because it made you feel bad?”

“Say it again. I want to hear you say it.”

Lewis inhaled deeply, and squares his shoulders. “You’re only here for the money,” he repeats, enunciating each word with flourish. “That’s the only reason you took this job. It wasn’t to be around me. You wanted to get out of dead end Lancaster, so you thought you’d take a job in a rich city, make a name for yourself, and hey, pal around with your war buddy while you’re at it. That’s what’s going on here, Dick, do you think I can’t tell?”

“Is that really how you feel?” He can’t stop his voice from rising. Emotion bleeds into his words, as if Lewis has gouged deep claw marks in his side and he cannot staunch their flow. Dick’s entire chest feels tight, still reverberating from the shock of the accusation. Lewis’s eyes are hard; his face is impassive.

“If it looks like a horse and smells like one, Dick —“

“Is that what you think?” Dick says again. He manages to regain control of his voice; now he just sounds hard, icy with fury. Lewis still doesn’t flinch.

“That’s what I think. Yeah.”

There is no trace of deception in Lewis’s eyes. He isn’t lying. The man Dick shares a home with — who he traveled across state lines to work alongside, who he followed through the war, who in not as many words promised Dick he would always have a place by his side — believes he’s only here for the money.

Lewis is rich. The fact is so ingrained into him that it’s impossible to miss. Dick has always known, but he’s never cared.

Yet somehow Lewis is left with an impression like this.

Dick stares him down for another long moment. Lewis sways on his feet, weighed down by alcohol and exhaustion, but glowers back with coal black eyes. After a beat, Dick snaps his gaze down and turns away.

“If that’s how you feel, Lew,” is all he says before striking out the door. He thinks he hears Lewis mumble his name; he doesn’t look back.


	7. things you said too quietly  --  speirs/lipton

Lipton’s head is down, so he does not see the way Ron is staring at him.

Ron’s eyes are fixed upon him like he is an eclipse; a meteor storm; the aurora borealis illuminating the night’s sky in a thousand incandescent shades. As if he is something amazing that Ron has never seen before.

He knows that this is untrue. He’s seen Lipton hundreds of times, in hundreds of situations. The man standing next to him is the same one he’s known for nearly three years now. This is the same Lipton who he went grocery shopping with on Thursday, who bickered with him over buying whole wheat or white bread. This is the same Lipton who volunteers down at the soup kitchens every time he has a spare weekend. This is the same Lipton who hums along to the radio while stirring dinner on the stove, just as he’s doing right now.

Ron knows Lipton. He knows the man he’s in love with, but somehow he never ceases to amaze him.

 _I could tell you,_ he thinks. _I could say it out loud, and it wouldn’t be inside of me, constantly threatening to claw its way out of my chest. Whatever you feel, you feel; but at least I’ll have said it._

“I love you,” he says. Lipton looks up from his sauce. His humming cuts off abruptly, and he blinks at Ron as is jarred awake in the middle of a dream.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that,” he says, then chuckles. “My mind was somewhere else.”

Ron Speirs is not a coward; but Lipton has an inexplicable way of making him feel like he has no defenses. That terrifies him, even more than imagining the sting of rejection if Lipton were to turn his back on him. No, Ron is not a coward, but he is not brave. Not with this.

He shakes his head, offering Lipton a small smile. “Nothing. Just said the sauce smells great.”

Lipton smiles back at him, and something inside of Ron’s chest aches.


	8. things you said when you were drunk  --  muck/malarkey

Everything about Skip is kind of endearing — from his eyes, his face, the crookedness of his smile, the light freckles that dance along the bridge of his nose. If Don didn’t know him at all, he’s sure he’d want to. As it is, he counts himself lucky to be among Skip’s best friends.

This is definitely a best friend thing. Don can’t think of anyone else he’d sit on his couch and get drunk with on a Tuesday night. (He ignores the fact that Skip has a particular way of getting him to do things he might not for anybody else. Skip always makes him feel like he’s in over his head.) He knows he’s got work tomorrow, and that his boss won’t appreciate him showing up with a raging hangover. Still, he finds himself reclining against the arm of his couch, beer bottle in hand, while Skip drains the dregs of the last one.

His face is flushed when he pulls away. There is a warm, relaxed grin on his face, like a flower drooping in summer heat. “I can always count on you to have the good stuff, Malark.”

“When you need it most,” Don chimes. Skip shrugs, runs the back of his hand over his mouth, and shakes his head.

“I’m not desperate. Jus’ needed a — needed a distraction tonight. Kinda. I guess.”

“You maybe needed a distraction.”

“Possibly,” Skip agrees, and fumbles with the beer bottle. It nearly slips out of his hands. He catches it with a rush of breath, and settles it on the table.

Don leans back. “Do I get to know what it’s about?” he asks, good humored to hide his genuine curiosity. Skip has a healthy appreciation for drinking, but it’s not a safety net for him. Even Don will admit to liking his alcohol a bit too much, but Skip’s never fallen prey to those pitfalls.

He gives an easy shrug, rolling his shoulders, then shakes his head. “Dunno,” he replies. “I guess I just — needed to feel — something. I dunno.”

“Well, I could just pinch you and take care of that, easy,” Don says, and grins. Skip’s laughter bubbles like beer in a glass.

“Aww, you really mean that?”

“Sure I do,” Don says. Skip leans into him, weight falling against his shoulder, and suddenly the smile slips from his face. “Anything, Skip. If I can help… I’ll do anything.”

He does not see Skip sigh, but he hears it, feels the breath agains the bare skin of his bicep. “Nah. I don’t need anythin’,” Skip replies. His voice is lower now, more slurred, like he’s losing himself in thought. “Just… I need to know I’m not alone sometimes. Like no one’s forgettin’ me.”

Skip is not an easy person to forget. “I’d never,” is all Don says. When Skip looks up at him, there’s a look in his eyes that Don doesn’t recognize.

“I wanna feel something,” he says again. “I need to.”

Don wraps an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulls him close. His hand is warm against Skip’s arm; his stubble tickles the top of Skip’s head.

“You feel me, right? I’m here.”

When Skip exhales, a weight Don didn’t even realize he’d been carrying lifts from his shoulders.

“Yeah,” says Skip. “You’re right here, Don.”


	9. things you said while we were driving  --  martin/bull

Johnny really likes Bohemian Rhapsody. 

Make no mistake, Bull is a classics man himself. He can appreciate a little Queen any day, and long car rides are always better for it — but around half an hour into their drive. Johnny decided he only wanted to listen to Bohemian Rhapsody. Bull can appreciate Freddie Mercury in small doses, but after the eight time hearing it, it begins to feel less like musical inspiration and more like torture. 

He reaches for the dial, only to get his hand slapped away. Exasperated, he pulls his eyes away from the road just long enough to glance at Johnny.  
“What’re you doing? This is our song.”

“We’ve heard of other songs too,” is all Bull says.

Johnny’s lips purse into a flat line. He leans back against the seat, frowning out onto the road in front of him. Bull knows he’s offended him, and silently curses his own tactlessness. Queen is starting up again in the background.

Taking a chance, Bull slides his hand over — not to change the dial, but to take Johnny’s hand. He doesn’t fight back, but doesn’t throw himself into Bull’s embrace either. For a moment he is tense and unhappy, not responding to his touch; then Bull begins to run his finger over Johnny’s knuckles, and he slowly relaxes.

They endure another play of Bohemian Rhapsody before the radio suddenly goes dead. Bull looks over in surprise to find Johnny fumbling one-handed through their CD collection.

“Huh,” he says, moving too fast for Bull’s eyes to keep up. “You ever notice we have way too many Coldplay CDs? Like, I don’t even love Coldplay. How about you?”

A tiny smile twitches across Bull’s lips as he focuses on the road. “Always thought they were okay.”

“They are. Not for road trips, though. Hey, how about some Johnny Cash?”

Now Bull really can’t help smiling. “Johnny,” he says, “I’d like that a lot.”

They’ve still got two more hours to kill before reaching their destination. Their gas tank is full, the music is great, and Bull wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.


	10. things you said with no space between us  --  speirs/lipton

Ron’s body is hot on top of his. Every muscle is tense as it slides along Carwood’s limbs, bare skin meeting bare skin. They are both slick with sweat; their bodies roll through the sheets, making a mess of the once immaculate bed, but neither of them are present enough to care. There is no room around them, there is no world outside. All that exists are each other — and they pressed together like there has never been, and will never be, anything else.

“Too much,” Ron hisses into Carwood’s ear. “You’re too much.”

Carwood’s fingers tighten in his hair. Ron let’s out a groan that turns into a growl, and he grinds harder against Carwood’s thigh. 

“I want all of you.”

His nails dig into Carwood’s shoulder blades. A sharp gasp escapes him, and Ron swallows it up with a hot mouth against his lips. The kiss only lasts for a second, but it is enough to send Carwood’s world tilting on its axis. When he opens his eyes again, everything seems distorted and unfamiliar, in the best way.

“I want to make you mine,” Ron rasps. “Want to worship you. Want to take every beautiful thing about you and prove… just how beautiful… you are.” He intersperses his words with light nips along Carwood’s neck that leave him gasping, back aching of its own accord. “I want it all.”

It’s too much. Carwood catches him by the shoulder and pushes back, just to make Ron break away. They are both flushed and panting, slick with sweat. When Carwood catches Ron’s eyes, he finds then dark with lust.

It’s all too much. It’s everything he wants, he needs, and he couldn’t ask for anything else. He wants the same things as Ron; only he knows that Ron is already his.

Carwood leans in against Ron’s lips, keeping their gazes locked, until they’re close enough that their breaths are shared as one.

“You can have me,” he whispers, “if you think you can take it.”

Ron’s teeth bare in a knife’s slash of a grin, and he leans in again. Carwood closes his eyes, and for a long while darkness is all he knows.


	11. things you said while i was crying  --  lipton/luz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of a bombed out house/child death! The image doesn’t get graphic, but it’s there.

His shoulders tremble with the force of sobs too big for his frame to contain. 

That’s not saying much, considering George is far from the biggest guy to begin with. The way he’s crying, he’s surprised he hasn’t snapped himself in two already. The despair feels like it’s tearing him apart from the inside out; he can’t help the way his body shakes with it. These tears would be enough to rattle Bull, who’s built like a tractor trailer, or Joe Toye, who could deadlift cars with those muscles. Right now, George has never felt smaller. Fragility leaves every breath feeling like this will be the one that breaks him, and it’s the pressing dread that scares him more than anything else.

This isn’t right, dammit, this is all wrong. He’s not the guy who breaks down. He’s the guy who keeps spirits up, who holds everyone else back from falling into the darkness. A well-timed wisecrack can do as much for a guy’s spirits as a smile and a pat on the back, and he knows that’s the role he plays. When he isn’t able to do that anymore…

Another gasp tears out of him, bringing a strangled cry with it. He tries to bite it back, but all he manages is to dig his teeth into his lips until he can taste iron.  
Who’s he kidding? He can’t help hold anyone else up. He can’t even support himself.

(There were kids, there were _kids_ in that house and it had been bombed to all hell. Maybe it happened a week ago; maybe a month; maybe just a few days. It didn’t matter that they were German kids. All Luz saw was the bomb-wrecked basement, the tiny hands sticking out from under a pile of rubble, a goddamn teddy bear burnt up like a piece of trash —)

He hates this. What the hell is the point? What’s the point of all this — fighting, bleeding, falling, for what? For a war on foreign soil, watching innocent people die? To give up their lives in bullet-riddled hedgerows, rainy farmhouses, frozen woods? To forget what another life is worth? For what? There aren’t any victors here. They’re all dying, and it’s simple as that. Maybe they’re in Germany, maybe the goddamn war is almost over, but it will never really end —

His sobs cut off with a sharp gasp. Strong arms wrap around him, forcing him to remain still. George swallows hard, exhales, and tries to squirm in the iron clad grip.

“Easy,” someone says. “Take it easy.” It occurs to George that they may have been talking to him for a long time, and he just couldn’t hear. That wouldn’t be a surprise. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

He has no energy for anything else. He lets the man behind him coax him back to self-control, inch by painstaking inch. He remembers how to breathe. He feels his heart rate slow. He pushes the bloody images away until they’ve joined the mess of other ugly, repressed memories in the back of his mind. He feels himself, slowly but surely, begin to feel like himself again.

Only when he can breathe once more and the tears have stopped coming does Lip (because of course it’s Lip) pull away. “Better?”

George turns around, swiping a hand across his grimy cheeks. Lipton has already seen the mess of it, and he’s got no dignity left, but he doesn’t want to hit him with a full-on mess after he went out of his way to help him. George doesn’t know how Lipton knew where he was, but he’s grateful he found him. 

“Yeah, Lip,” he says. His voice is hoarse, but doesn’t tremble. “I’ll be okay.”

There is understanding in Lipton’s eyes. He raises a hand, brushing the bangs out of George’s face, and sighs. If George leans into the touch a bit more than he needs to, neither of them says a word about it.

“It’s okay, Luz,” he tells him. And no, it’s not okay; and no, none of this will ever be okay; but somehow, his words hit right at George’s very core.

He’s not sure how Lip is able to say the right thing every time, but damn is he glad he’s here.


	12. things you said after you kissed me  --  grant/talbert

Chuck places a hand on both sides of his thighs and hovers over him. Floyd’s back is pressed against the bricks behind him. The nape of his neck endures the slightest of scrapes, while he knows his shirt will be stained with red dust in the morning. Common sense tells him to move, but the clear gaze locked on his own tells him he doesn’t really want to. A hand on his shoulder stops him before he can try.

He closes his eyes; and when he opens them, Chuck is closer. He can feel hot breath against his lips and exhales. Dizziness is starting to get to him. He wishes he could blame it on alcohol, or altitude, or one too many cigarettes — but they both know better.

They are in Austria, the war in Europe is over, and celebration is the name of the evening. Floyd will not be allowed to spend this night on his own.

Chuck says something, but he doesn’t hear, doesn’t care. He presses back into his hand.

That’s all the cue Chuck needs.

His lips are warm against his, soft where he expected them to be chapped. They fall into a fluid sort of rhythm; not breathless, not desperate. Chuck’s hands are on his shoulders; he is straddling Floyd’s lap. Floyd holds him in place with both arms around his waist. Their lips are locked together, moving gently, as if they never want to part.

It means nothing and everything all at once. Floyd’s heart is racing fast enough to sprint clear back to Kokomo without him. (He wonders if that would be so bad, to have his heart leave him behind. Would it hurt more, or hurt less? Would Chuck still feel the same against his lips? He cannot say, and doesn’t want to know.)

When they part, Chuck is wide-eyed. Floyd feels breathless.

“Happy V-E Day,” is all he can think to say. Chuck grins, wide enough to light up all of goddamn Europe, and it stops Floyd’s heart for all of a second.

When he leans back in, Chuck is waiting for him. It seems they really are the winners tonight; Floyd lets himself be swallowed up by that thought, and the press of another pair of lips against his own.


	13. things you said when i was crying  --  luz/toye

“God,” George says, voice tight with alarm. Then a little more loudly, a lot more panicked: “God, come on. Hey, it’s okay. Joe.”

“Lea’mme ‘lone!” Joe fires back — or, at least, that’s what George gets from it. The blanket he’s got pulled over his head muffled his words. His voice is thick with tears, breaking on the last syllables. Every sob leaves his broad shoulders trembling. _Holy shit,_ this is the worst thing George has ever seen.

“I said — I said I was sorry, remember?” He prods at Joe’s shoulder. Joe makes a noise like a distressed goat and cringes away. “Baby. _Please.”_

“Stop!” Joe shouts, and George has no problem understanding that one. He backs off as quickly as he can. The last thing he wants to do is impose himself on Joe when he’s like… this.

He can’t leave Joe alone either, no matter what he says. Out of desperation, he turns to his phone.

“Hey, Lip,” he says, and is at once greeted by the customary “hey, boy.” Lip’s calm can usually help George keep a cool head in any situation, and he needs that now.

Joe’s sobs are getting louder, even though George has ventured over to the doorway. They echo in the phone. For a moment, Lip is quiet. Then he clears his throat, and says in a very flat voice, “Is that Joe?”

George winces. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah it is.”

“What did you _do?”_

“The doctor said give him one pain pill, but he was really hurting! So I thought if I cut one in half and gave him that with the full one, he’d feel…” A loud sob from Joe cuts him off. “Better.”

“And now he’s high as a kite,” Lip says. It isn’t a question.

“He was looking down at his fake leg and yelling that somebody stole his real one. It looked like he was gonna try and fight the lamp or something, so I sat him down and put on a movie.”

“What movie?”

Here, George really hesitates. There’s no way around this being his fault. “Bambi.”

“ _George.”_

“He was really into it for a while!” George exclaims. “I’m sorry! Okay? Now just, just — tell me what to do, because this is freaky! I dunno how to fix him!”

It takes a moment (if George didn’t know better he’d swear Lip was trying to drag out his suffering) before a sigh echoes over the line. “Make him some tea,” he says. “Give him blankets, some pillows. Try to get him to sleep it off. No more movies.”

George glances over at his well-stocked Disney collection. “What about Frozen?”

“Luz.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Lip.”

He hangs up the phone and casts another wary glance at Joe before forcing himself to swallow his pride. He makes his way over, pillow in hand, and gently tucks it behind Joe’s back. “Come on, big guy.”

Joe makes a weird grunting noise, but settles back against the pillows all the same. He looks tired now, worn out from crying (or the drugs are finally getting to him). Either way, he doesn’t fight against George, and that’s a relief.

“‘S no fair, Luz,” he sniffles, face flushed and blotchy. Tear tracks are slowly drying down his cheeks. George’s stomach twists, and he brushes his thumb across Joe’s skin. He only realizes how much he’s acting like his own damn mother — tiny soothing noises and all — when he’s already done it, and Joe has leaned into his hand.

“Alright, buddy. Let’s just sit down. I got you.” He curls in next to Joe, who seems grateful to have him there. Strong arms manhandle George as if he’s nothing more than a teddy bear. Since this is technically all his fault, George sees no justification in complaining — not that he’d want to. “I’m right here,” he says as Joe’s chin comes to rest on top of his head. “Not going anywhere.”

They spend a few more minutes watching Friends reruns (Ross gives them both a creepy-crawly feeling, though they can’t say why) when George says out of the blue, “Hey, at least you ain’t feeling any pain, right?”

Joe’s only answer is a groggy hum. George chooses to take that as a “no”.


	14. things you said when you thought i was asleep  --  winters/nixon

Lew looks like a different person when he’s sleeping.

It’s not often that Dick can call his lover carefree. Lew likes to project a mask of callousness. When things matter most, he brushes them off, allowing them to slide by like every unwelcome word has been caught in an oil slick. He is cheerfully callous, mocking the idea of taking things too seriously. Lew seems to live by the principle that every awful thing can be made better with a wry remark and a shot of whiskey; Dick can agree with him on the first point, if not the second.

Lew cares more than he will ever let on, however. Dick is privileged to know him well enough to recognize it. The only reason Lew likes to be so cavalier is because he cares too _much_.

He carries so many things on his shoulders that it’s a miracle he doesn’t buckle under it all. Lew is a character engraved with more complexities that Dick can hope to understand. All he can do is admire him, love him, and figure out as much as it takes to keep him rooted to earth. When he sees a knit in Lew’s brows, he brushes it away. His hands massage over tense shoulders. A dry comment from Dick can cut through one of Lew’s worse moods. Most importantly, Dick never lets him drown in his bottles.

Awake, Lew is a contradictive puzzle. Asleep… he is something else entirely.  
Dick never fails to be amazed at how young Lewis looks when he’s sleeping. There’s a hint of innocence to his face that he never sees any other time. He is relaxed, unguarded, unhindered by concerns that burden him in the day. He looks young. The childhood that slipped past Lew is echoed when he is sleeping, and Dick can only hope he’s happier now than he was then.

Sometimes, he can not resist watching Lew sleep. Just for a moment; long enough to take in the peaceful expression on his face, and marvel at how lucky he is. Dick will run his finger along his brow, stroke his feathery bedhead, leave light kisses along his jaw. Lew never knows, and never suspects a thing in daylight.

Some nights, Dick even whispers the things he does not dare to say in daylight hours.

“Sometimes I worry about you, Nix,” he confides to his lover’s sleeping form. “I know you’re stronger than anybody realizes… but sometimes I’m scared you’ll float away, and I won’t be able to follow you.”

He trails off, swallows hard, and forces the worry off his own face. Lew’s hair is silky beneath his touch. His skin is soft. His face is placid, unburdened. He is _peaceful_ , and seeing him like this makes Dick feel like he’s doing something right.

Dick cannot help smiling to himself. _This_ is the man he loves.

“As long as I can, I’ll hold on to you,” he promises. “As long as there’s a life for me with you in it, I’ll never let go. I love you, Lew.”


	15. things you said that i wasn't meant to hear  --  winters/nixon

The fact is simple: he is supposed to be alone.

This is how it was before the war, before everything it brought with it. Before the hell that still ransacks his dreams; before the sight of blood no longer made his stomach cold with horror, but brought with it a dull resignation; before alcohol became less of an indulgence than a lifeline. Before OCS. Before Europe. Before _Dick_. Before all of that, he was alone, and he’d been alone for so long that he’d forgotten how awful it was.

If a hungry man never knows the taste of food, does he really know what he’s missing? Dick is the greatest thing that Lewis could ask for; he is the answer to prayers he didn’t even know he was praying; he is everything he doesn’t deserve.

And one day, Dick will leave. That’s a fact too.

Good things never stay forever. The best things are as ephemeral as the tides, in one day and out the next. For the moment, Dick is here, Dick loves him. Tomorrow, Lewis may be alone again.

He knows that, and he prepares for it. The sting of potential heartbreak cannot compete with the burn of brandy down his throat.

He’s well over halfway through the bottle, which is why it doesn’t occur him to silence the thoughts that spill from his mouth, uninhibited.

“When you’re gone, it’ll be a load off my goddamn shoulders,” he mutters to himself, glaring down into his glass as if he can find answers swirling within the amber liquid. “No more waiting. No… looking for it. No thinking about you. Just a relief.”

He pauses for a moment before chucking, self-deprecating and bitter. He takes another deep drink of brandy, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t notice the figure lingering in the doorway behind him, nor does he see the hurt on Dick’s face before he turns his back to him. Lewis hears the soft click of the door closing, but he’s too far gone think much of it at all.


End file.
